Evolution of the 3rd Street Saints
by MagicPotatoes
Summary: This is a time of reflection for the Saints. Their treasured leader is looking to expand the Saints turf, all the while her homies start to change. Good friends become enemies, parents against children, love and loss. One thing is for certain; there ain't any stupid fucking dildos in this.*Also, ever wondered what happened to Dex? Here's my guess. Between SR2-SR3, possibly some SR4
1. Chapter 1

The Boss was becoming impatient as she began pacing about the atrium of the Saints Hideout in the Bavogian Plaza situated in the lower class, Red Light District of Stilwater. The grand sprawling staircases which were normally packed with purple-attired youths and scantily-clad strippers, were bare and the soft neon lighting was muted. It was half eleven in the evening, and most of the crew were either passed out somewhere or raising hell on the streets. The Boss didn't really give two shits how her homies spent their free time. So long as they were loyal and got the job done, then she was pretty mellow with them. Ever since the Saints had won back their city from that pompous asshole, Vogel, the Saints had free reign of the place. And the money they'd earned was certainly turning heads.

Flashy jewels and gold-plated license plates were like droplets in a sea of wealth. The Boss had acquired as much property as she could get her hands on, offering it to her crew for all of their hard work. She dug her phone out from between her impressive cleavage and began flicking through her contacts to see if she'd received any updates. When she found none, she cursed and picked up her pacing yet again. She kept peeking up at the staircases every now and again, becoming more and more distraught every time she saw the hollowness of it. Endless scenarios ran through her head. Her imagination kept tormenting her, as she lost herself in an endless stream of terrified thoughts. The alarm on her phone buzzed. Midnight.

She shook her head, then grabbed the SMG propped up against the white leather couch in the centre of the room, and began sprinting up the steps, lunging across the balcony. Just as she rounded the corner she came face to face with just the motherfucker she'd been waiting to see. "Oh." She exclaimed, shoving her weapon into the waistband of her dark blue latex pants. "Hey, Gat." The dark-haired asian street-tough re-sheated his hunting knife and nodded at her.

"Sup, Boss?" He slurred, the smell of beer on his cloths as he wiped a dribble of blood from the corner of his lip. She gave the slightest tilt of her head then lead him back down into the atrium.

"Ultor's a big company, Gat. It ain't gonna exactly sit there and take this shit lightly." Gat arched an eyebrow and smirked.

"And since when the fuck did you let that stop you?" He retorted. The Boss couldn't help but smile at that; a smile that brightened her golden tanned skin and made her pale blue eyes twinkle even in the dim lighting.

"It ain't. I'm just saying, we should probably have our guard up." Gat snorted at that. "I'm serious, Gat. They're not exactly gunna sit there and take it like a bitch." Gat stared off at the wall, his brow furrowed.

"Yeah, well maybe they should've thought of that before they decided to fuck around with some pussified street gangs in the first goddamn place." The Boss and Gat both stood side by side, guns at the ready facing the bar. Lined across the counter were empty bottles of beer leftover from the recent festivities. The Boss clicked the safety off. "I know," she grumbled. "If only that motherfucking punk Julius hadn't tried to nuke me..." She trailed off, unable to look Gat in the eye.

The Boss knew that the murder of his girlfriend, Aisha was still an open wound for him. It had just occurred to her that if the Ronin had never been established in Stilwater, if the Saints had been around to stop them from taking this city... Then Aisha _might_ have lived. The Boss knew why she couldn't look Gat in the eye; it was because of her actions, because of her quest for revenge, to take back Stilwater, that Aisha had been killed. And yet Gat was the one left to suffer with her loss. The Boss shook off her guilt as she usually did – Gat wasn't the kind of guy that really talked about feelings anyway. "Nevermind. Lets get to target practice."

Several rounds later and the two of them were somewhat satisfied with themselves. Keeping their skills honed was their own hobby. It had been ever since the Boss had joined the Saints. She didn't know why, but she'd always felt strangely soothed with a weapon in her hand. She'd carried it long enough that it'd began to feel like an extension of her own body – not being armed felt alien to her. The Boss rubbed her shoulder wistfully, feeling somewhat nostalgic for the familiar kick of a shotgun. Gat nodded at the shattered remains of the bottles and sighed. "Man, fuck this. It ain't the same as moving targets." The Boss eyed him warily. "Hey, don't worry." He said. "I ain't gonna go around killing the crew." He paused. "Just those psycho cops." The Boss smiled.

"Good. Them motherfuckers just love to start shit."

"Yeah, you'd think they'd learn not to fuck with us." Johnny exclaimed, reloading his rifle. "Not after we took out that asshole, Vogel."

The Boss glanced over at him, noting how tensed his upper body was. She smiled, recalling when she first joined the Saints. Not long after she'd been canonized, and picked up her first weapon, she'd taken up target practice on her own accord. She remembered it clearly: she'd been fourteen at the time, short, with red curly dreads that framed her face. The bridge of her nose and cheeks were splattered with freckles and smudged with dirt. She remembered standing opposite the alter, tensed like a jungle cat. She'd been so wound up after her first brush with the Vice Kings that she felt like she'd snap at any moment. She'd mostly been running on adrenalin and gallons of soda from Freckle Bitches for the last few days after Julius had taken her under his wing.

So it came as a shock when as she was about to start up a second round, something cold and wet slapped into the back of her neck. Her shot hit way off target. She pivoted, gazing wildly around her, gun at the ready. She heard a chuckle from behind her, as Johnny brushed up alongside her, a cigarette teetering on his lips. He offered her a pack and she shook her head. Gat'd shrugged then turned and settled on the pew behind her, kicking his feet up and began rustling through his Fist burger. She glanced down and picked up the sweaty wrist band and chucked it aside. She bit her lip, afraid to speak. She gripped her pistol, wiping the grime off her hand, then regained her focus. Although, it was harder now that the tenseness in her shoulders had escalated. She fired a couple of shots that blasted about a metre off target. She sighed and face-palmed.

Gat let out a little chuckle, then licking the grease off his fingers, said. "How the fuck did you and Troy take out those Vice Kings with shitty aim like that?" He smiled. She glared at him in response, yet he barely noticed. He sat up and walked over, patting her on the back. "Look, man. You should loosen up." He said. She eyed him curiously. "Alright, here." He reached over and wrenched the gun from her hand. "Hold your gun to the side. One handed." She blushed, wanting to add the immature slur 'that's what she said' but held her tongue, and instead smiled. Gat surprisingly noticed the suggestive look he gave her, however he didn't show it. He continued, tweaking her elbow so that it was level with her shoulder. "It'll make the kick much easier, than if you hold it double-handed like some goddamn super cop." He proceeded to correct her stance; "Quit standing like you're gonna shit a brick." Meanwhile, the Boss (then known casually as 'playa') listened patiently to Gat's instruction.

And so it had become something of a routine, their equivalent of afternoon tea. She may not have been with the Saints long, but she'd kept her ears to the ground, and it wasn't long until she'd figured them out. Or... She thought she had: she'd trusted Julius, Dex and Troy. All of them had turned out to be lying sellouts. With the possible exception of Troy; as it turned out, he'd grown sympathetic. Or perhaps he was scared of the Boss. Either way back when she'd first joined, she'd been intimidated by Gat's reputation of being the team badass. Now she'd come to know him as one of her closest friends. At the very least, he hadn't turned his back on the Saints. He was loyal; something which she could respect.

And that's why it hurt her to think about Aisha.

The Boss had let her down. Aisha's loss had changed Johnny so much. He spent less time practising and more time outright murdering. Whenever he did turn up at the Mission house, he often had a haunted look about him, as if he'd aged a decade. The Boss couldn't help but notice that he'd started weightlifting a lot and drinking, particularly when there was nothing to do in town. She could clearly see that being cooped up like this was beginning to get to him. The Boss had entertained many thoughts on which to comfort her friend. Although she knew that all he wanted to do now, was kill every motherfucker that crossed his path.

After the last shell clang to the floor, there came an eerie silence that was thick with tension. And sawdust. The Boss took a deep breath, glancing up at Gat. "I been thinking-" He cut her off, smirking

"A rare thing, huh?" She forced a smile and sat down upon the couch.

"Look, Gat... Call me a pussy, or whatever but... I'm startin' to get worried." She glanced up at him, her eyes sparkling with emotion. Gat was none the wiser.

"Hey, c'mon. We're the Saints. We already proven we can take down those dickless motherfuckers over at Ult–"

"I'm not talkin' about Ultor." She snapped. There was a long pause as she attempted to regain her composure. "I mean, yeah they are a concern, and it's not like we've got other shit to take care of, but fuck, Gat!" The Boss shot up, head in her hands. She began to pace again. There was an uncomfortable welling in her chest, as she felt a cold sheen of sweat developing all over her body. The unbidden memory of Gat trussed up in countless layers of bandages, pale as a sheet, lying alone on the hospital bed, as his heart rate beeped ever slower, before inevitably stopping altogether.

But it wasn't a memory. Not completely. The Boss worried that it might become a reality. Her heart leapt into her mouth, her throat constricting, going dry. She shook her head, calming herself. She glanced up at Gat's unconcerned expression. His eyes narrowed, seemingly challenging her to speak. She returned his gaze, unflinching and not giving anything away. She sighed, deflating all tension. "Just... Don't get killed." She affirmed. His hardened expression melted away. He nodded, a small smile replacing his frosty look. "Hey, no promises, Boss." The two of them bro-fisted, before turning separate ways, each going to clean up their own mess. Meanwhile, the Boss felt a hot flush run across her cheeks as tears welled in her eyes. _It would seem_, she thought, _that losing Gat could cause me more pain than being blown to hell. _She then added, snidely to herself; _at least that had been quick_.


	2. Chapter 2

Some hours later, the Boss emerged from her tiny crib in the Red Light District, a few blocks from the Mission house. After tidying up the glass and other shrapnel that carpeted the floor, she'd stormed off in search of a comfy bed to rest her head upon. Sadly, sleep had come unbidden to her, as she couldn't shake the dreaded feeling in her stomach. She kept picturing hundreds of scenarios where Gat kept throwing his life away, becoming more and more reckless. Perhaps this was what it was like to feel guilty over the death of an innocent, such as Aisha. When she realised that sleep would be near impossible, she began pacing once again. Her crib was furnished very well, for a shoebox, with a 45inch plasma screen, full stereo system, a stripper pole, a king size bed, and a sleek kitchen accented with white tiling upon the counter-tops and bright red wallpaper.

She reached for a beer from the squat fridge, before continuing her pacing. She hadn't even bothered to change, still clad in tight blue leather pants, with a matching hippie crop top, accented with red and white, the colours of the Union Jack. She took a gulp from her beer, idly glancing at her watch. It read 3:54am. She rolled her eyes, gnawing her lip. She began contemplating ploughing a monster truck into the side of a milk factory, before deciding on something less violent. She finished her beer, then smashed it against the wall, striding out of her apartment and 'round the side of the building to the garage. There, she summoned her pride and joy: a dark purple Baron with gleaming gold trim and rims. Every time she laid eyes upon the decadent devil, she felt a glimmer of pride. Its' plush seats and elegant framework had been entirely designed by herself down to the last detail. It was like her soul-car.

She slipped into the driver's seat, tapping open the glove compartment, then sliding on a pair of jet-black sunglasses, she keyed the ignition. The car rumbled to life, and she grinned. She dashed out of the driveway, and began zigzagging haphazardly through the back-streets, until she came to a stop outside of the the local theater. She eyed the signs from within the confines of her car, a hand instinctively gripped the steering wheel, whilst the other caressed the pistol resting against her thigh. As she watched, under the cover of darkness, she couldn't help but notice a lone couple in the shadows. The woman giggling as she clung to her date, whom was clearly just as hooked on her every word. The Boss felt an odd kind of yearning, her throat clenching. She tried to think of any given time when she'd been taken to see a movie. She remembered her school across the pond had offered a field trip to the theater once. Snow White, she recalled. Except how she wasn't allowed to go. She remembered the excuses, even now. She'd been told it was because her guardian couldn't afford it, but she knew the real reason. He didn't want the glare of the lights blaring onto her face... He didn't want the others to see the marks...

The distant echo of police sirens made her teeth grind. She sighed then tugged at the steering wheel. She needed advice. Thankfully, she knew where she'd always be welcome. She began heading to the south west section of Stilwater, cruising through the steel and glass business district. She made a point of flipping off the outrageously huge Ultor building as she drove past; it itself being a permanent middle finger to the lower class. She smiled, wondering how and when the Saints'd get to tear it down. Hopeful thoughts of RPG rocket launchers, machine gun mounted helicopters, and flame spitting tanks brightened her mood, as she parked outside of the grand Saints Row church.

She stepped out of the car, marvelling at the huge changes made to the place. It seemed the entire building had been raised, and coated with a fresh layer of paint, making it look like the glistening holy place that it was meant to be. Ironically there were hardly any patrons to be seen, then again, it was a little bit early, even for mass. As the Boss ascended the steps to the main hall, she couldn't help but notice the lack of avant garde to compliment the walls. She clutched at the small cross around her neck. She often kept it hidden down her shirt so that none of the crew would see. She'd never exactly been a religious person, even before she joined the Saints. She'd never really paid attention in school, and whilst her father had identified as a Catholic, the Boss had never attended a church service before. In fact, she'd never been to a church until Julius came along. She supposed a church service would be like that, except less canonizing.

She heaved a heavy sigh. She sank into the nearest pew, clasping her hands together between her knees, head bowed. The place was empty, yet she was still cautious. Hesitantly, she placed her weapon on the stone floor. The air was cold, and musky, mingled with the intense smell of toilet cleaner. She wet her lips and uttered softly. "Ok, erm. God. I may not be one of your regulars. But I gotta admit. I don't know what I'm gunna do now. I mean, what more is there for me to accomplish? I took back Stilwater, I killed Julius... What more is there?" In a much lower, deadlier voice she uttered "I would like to take out Dex too, but that fucker's trail has gone cold. I don't know where the fuck a bastard like him'd go." She gazed hopefully at the alter, eyes wandering, as she waited for some kind of response. She shook her head, casting a quick glance at the shadows for anyone listening. Then in a much quieter, almost unrecognizable voice, like that of a child, she added; "I can't stop thinking about them... Everyday. First Lin, then Aisha, Carlos..." The names made her grimace, remembering each cruel fate. Her voiced dropped further to a choked whisper. "I... Just... Don't want to lose anyone else. I've plenty of blood on my hands as it is." She clasped her hands together, her palms sweating. "I can't stop thinking about them. Sure they knew the risks of being in a gang." She paused, shaking off her rising hysteria.

She swallowed, clearing her parched throat. "But that doesn't change the fact that they were also my friends." She glanced back up at the alter, eyes glazed over as tears threatened to spill. "And then I think about Gat. And what would happen to him if he... if he..." Her chest clenched. The very thought of him dying was unbearable. Much like Shaundi, the Boss had looked up to him as a role model when she first joined. But in recent months something about that dynamic had changed. Maybe it was Gat's limited ability to lead, or just their common goals, but he'd trusted the Boss and grown to respect her as a leader. The Boss wasn't sure how to feel about that still. Although, she was certainly glad to have the Saints and Stilwater back; being the leader seemed to come naturally to her. She sighed and bit the inside of her cheek "I just... can't stand the thought of losing anyone else. So please... God?" She glanced back up at the alter, yet again, growing more and more dismayed by the lack of a holy intervention. "Fuck this. Like I need to waste my time with this bullshit." She rose from the pew, pistol in hand. She refused to allow herself to feel helpless, not now, not ever. She shot a nearby stain-glass window and lept out. She rounded the building, idly kicking at the nearby flowerbeds as she passed.

The same tenseness from when she'd first joined had returned, bunching up the knots in her shoulders like a coiled up cobra. She sighed, wondering if it'd be safe to get pissed in her bathtub with a bottle of tequila when she caught a glimpse of a shadow across the parking lot. A woman stood eyeing her from beneath a streetlamp. The Boss felt the familiar kick of adrenalin rush through her veins, as she removed her pistol from the waistband of her pants, twirling it about her fingers. Her eyes were locked upon the sultry figure. The Boss arched an eyebrow, resting her free hand on her hip. "Little early to be pimpin', don't ya think, lady?" She questioned the woman in the shadows. She stepped forward and the woman tossed a cigarette onto the asphalt and stomped it out. The woman purred, then in a heavy Spanish accent, she replied; "It never too early for a lil fun." The woman sashayed into the light, projecting an aura of confidence, winking at the Boss.

She had olive toned skin and bright green eyes that seemed stuck half shut (like Jessica Rabbit, and about as much eyeshadow) with a messy mane of black hair, styled into a makeshift bun. She had small, pouty red lips, a sharp nose, and thin arced eyebrows. She was slim, with long legs yet still short, and with wide hips. The woman wore a dark orange band, barely covering her midrift with matching boots, and dark leopard printed pants that hugged her figure. Her neck, wrists, fingers and ears were all choked with golden bangles. The Boss caught a glimpse of metal sticking out of the woman's boot – a butterfly knife.

The Boss huffed, slowly circling the woman, eyes locked on her. "You know it's not polite to follow people." She slurred. The woman gave a soft chuckle, waving her gold-clad hand dismissively.

"Don't mind me, girlie. I was just passing through this toxic-spewing vomit-puddle." The woman pursed her lips, a glisten in her eye as she brushed passed the Boss. "Watch yourself, Chelsea." The woman whispered a hint of venom in her words. The Boss instantly tensed, rooted to the spot. She pivoted on the spot, reaching out for the woman's arm, however she'd already disappeared into the darkness. The Boss could feel her heart beating drastically and sweat rising to her palms. The Boss hadn't been addressed with her forename for over half a decade. Panic spread through her as she anxiously began scanning the Row for the weirdo woman, tearing apart bush after bush and checking every nook and cranny for her. Maybe she was one of them gypsies or something, the kind that claimed to know all that hocus pocus voodoo shit. Still, that didn't explain how she knew the Boss' name... No one knew that. No one cared, either.

After nearly an hour of fretting and uninterrupted pacing, the Boss shook it off. Maybe she'd taken too many hits off the lightbulb with Pierce and Shaundi. Although, to be on the safe side... "Troy?" She barked down the phone. The tired police officer sighed. He sounded like he'd just woken up.

"Kid, unlike you, I have a day job." He paused to yawn then continued "What d'you want?"

"I need you to get in touch with the airport security." She replied. Troy was silent for a moment, taken aback.

"And why the fuck would I do that?" He snapped.

"Unless you want the Saints to cut off their most generous funding–" Troy interrupted;

"Look, kid. I wish I could help you, I really do. I may be chief of police, but airline security? I already do enough for you sneaking paperwork around my own office without having to go infiltrate another department. What do you need there anyway?"

"Video footage. It seems I've got me a tail. A very long and unwanted one." She grumbled.

"And you can't do this yourself, why?" He asked impatiently. Poor fucker probably wanted to get back to bed. The Boss tsked

"Bitch, do I look like a hacker to you? Besides, it'd be easier going in with an actual cop." As good as Shaundi was with tech, the Boss didn't feel comfortable involving her crew in this minor situation. Especially one that seemed to be linked to her past. Troy groaned. "Alright, fine. I'll meet you at the airport, after work on Friday, ok?" The Boss smiled to herself and nodded.

"Good."

"Now fuck off and let me sleep." He growled. Instantly, the line went dead.

"Love you too, Troy." She grinned, then shoved her cell back down her shirt, feeling slightly less disturbed.


	3. Chapter 3

There came a round of loud bangs from the living room of the university loft. Shaundi bolted upright from her bed, knocking off the guy draped around her like a python. Her skin felt flushed as she kicked off the covers and crawled away, keeping low as she glanced around, eyes adjusting to the darkness. She fumbled for her cellphone hidden in the bedsheets. She flicked it open, briefly checking the time. 6am. She couldn't remember ever being up that early.

Another couple of bangs sounded, startling her, losing her phone over the banister. "Shit!" She hissed under her teeth. She scrambled for her rifle, dumped at the foot of the spiral staircase. She picked it up then crept to the door, creaking it open, nuzzling the weapon through the crack as she peeked through. Another face met hers, grinning sheepishly. A bald black man dressed in a business suit met her, his grey eyes shining. His sleeves were rolled up and his tie was loosened. She racked her brain, trying to remember if she'd ever seen this guy naked before. A look of dazed confusion passed her face. The man spoke in a soft clear voice "Hey, uh. Sorry to bother you this early, but my car broke down outside your place." He nodded over to the sleek black crompton saddled up to the pavement. "I wondered if I could use your phone? It's kind've urgent" Shaundi took a few seconds to process this, her mind still fuzzy from the beer bong. "Sure." She said hesitantly, idly brushing away a lock of hair, then stepping aside so he could come in.

He smiled, grabbing his suitcase and coffee. He hurried inside, Shaundi eyeing him warily, her rifle behind her back. "Is there something wrong with _your_ cell?" She asked. He seemed embarrassed.

"Yeah, my little brother has it."

"Ah. That's sweet."

"Look, I don't mean to be rude, but could you just give me the number for a taxi?" Shaundi arched an eyebrow. Clearly this guy wasn't from Stilwater.

"Dude, you'd have to wait hours for a taxi this early. You're probably better off walking." The guy seemed to wince, possibly cursing under his breath.

"D'you know a place where I can borrow a car?" He asked. Shaundi shook her head.

"Sorry. Raj, right?" The guy's face went blank, suddenly confused.

"No." He said, uneasy. "My name's Tom. I'm sorry, have we met before?" Now it was Shaundi's turn to feel embarrassed.

"No, I just thought I recognised you." She paused, then outstretched her hand "I'm Shaundi, by the way." He nodded, eyes glancing around.

He seemed pretty jumpy. Maybe he was some crackhead that'd gone nuts. She double-checked to see if his car was actually there. She shrugged then turned back to him. "Y'know, if you need a ride I can take you." His features brightened, then he sighed with relief.

"Please! That would be great!"

Within minutes, the two were strapped in Shaundi's bright red 'party' van. Tom shifted uncomfortably in the narrow space that was the shotgun seat. Shaundi found herself drumming her fingers on the wheel, gnawing the inside of her cheek. Shaundi wasn't the kind of girl that liked prolonged silences such as this. Tom seemed pretty stressed out, and even though she didn't know him, she hated seeing anyone upset. Never taking her eyes off the road, she nodded towards him then asked "So what's the emergency again?" Tom snapped out of his rabid nail-biting and glanced at her, brows raised and eyes brightened.

"Job interview." He nodded back, biting his lip then took a sip of his coffee.

"Oh cool. You said it was with Foreign Power? Which one?"

"It's the one in the museum district? D'you know the place?" Shaundi gave an uncertain shrug.

"Eh, kind of. I think my class came through the area on an art trip, once." Tom arched an eyebrow at her.

"You _think_, huh?" He said, eyeing her. Shaundi pouted. Fine if he wanted to be a judgemental jerk. She was the one doing him a favour after all.

She promptly switched on the radio. The station was Ultor FM. Which had been bought back from Ultor, and went back to it's original name, GenX. Shaundi could feel her fingers clench around the steering wheel. The radio station her ex, Veteran Child had worked for. Both her and Tom reached for the knob to change it, their hands brushing. Shaundi playfully slapped it away. "Number one rule you need to learn in Stilwater. Driver controls the radio." She grinned mischievously. Tom gave a small chuckle.

"I'll keep that in mind next time." There was a brief pause as Shaundi flicked through the stations, settling on The Mix. She grinned as her favourite song (The Final Countdown by Europe) started playing, humming along. Tom stiffened. "Wait. How'd you know I'm not from Stilwater?" Shaundi smiled, glancing at him.

"Easy, just need to ask you one question. Do you like the Skeeters?"

"Who're the Skeeters?" He asked, dumbfounded. Shaundi's smile grew.

"Exactly." She paused. "So, car salesman, huh? Kind've ironic I guess."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Y'know, how your car's busted?" She said. He arched an eyebrow at her.

"I'm pretty certain that's not ironic." He grumbled.

The car veered up alongside the pavement a few blocks from Humbolt Park on Tom's request. He hopped out of the van, yanking out his suitcase. He turned and nodded politely. "Thanks for the ride. Shaundi, was it?" She smiled and gave him a thumbs up gesture.

"Yeah. Hey, listen. Take it easy in that interview. You'll totally nail it." He gave her a cheery salute before turning on his heels and striding over to Foreign Power. Shaundi studied his confident stride, idly wondering if he had a ring on his finger.

She was startled out of her brief daydream by the ringing of her phone. She snatched it off the dashboard and answered without checking the caller ID. "Where the hell you at, Shaundi?" snapped the all-too-familiar whiny voice that belonged to Pierce. "I just got a call from the Boss, bitching at me for not turning up to pick up the dust." Shaundi sucked her teeth.

"Well I'm sorry about that Pierce, but maybe you should take more responsibility."

"The hell, girl! You said you were going to do it! You told me to not worry about it! I _specifically_ remember having this discussion with you for the _fifth time_ last night. You said you were going to pick up the stuff, then deliver the goods to our boys _today_!" Shaundi's free hand came up in a warding off gesture.

"Hey, just chill, Pierce. The Boss asked you to do it for a reason." Pierce guffawed.

"Like what? Why can't you do it? Isn't the Loa Dust _your_ responsibility?"

"I'm sorry Pierce," she said, in a small voice, like a kitten being scolded. "I had to take care of some things." There was a pause.

"Wait. You were already up? Before noon?" Pierce asked, disbelief in his voice. Shaundi opened her mouth to defend her pride but he cut her off. "Look, forget it. I'm already at the meeting spot, and the crew are waiting. We'll talk later." The call ended before Shaundi could register the bitterness in his goodbye.

On the opposite side of the city, Pierce shut his phone angrily, tilting his head over to where the three Saints were huddled outside the main drug lab, awaiting orders. He took a deep breath, feeling immensely calmer, then swung open the door of his cosmo sports car. He swaggered his way over to the group. "The stuff all ready to go?" He asked. The short caucasian guy spoke first.

"Yeah, brother. All loaded up for ya." A female black lady turned on her heels, escorting Pierce to the truck with a sexy sway that went unnoticed by him. All of them had their weapons at the ready in case they had to defend the product. Pierce was very hesitant. He wasn't used to doing this shit, but still, the drugs needed to be shipped, often early in the morning. Ridiculously early. Today, it would be going out late due to Shaundi being unable to attend. Tensions were high as the crew rounded the corner of the farm facility.

Pierce was half tempted to call the Boss for further instructions, however he didn't want to seem incompetent. He knew the location for the drug storage, situated in the student housing south of the university campus. From there the crew could pick up their stock to be sold to the students. He knew the safest and quickest route, and was more than certain that he had enough firepower. Still, he couldn't help but feel unappreciated. The group went 'round to the back of the truck. The white kid making a point of showing off the product, offering Pierce some, whilst the black girl and her hispanic friend double-checked the truck for explosives.

Within five minutes, the team were on the road. Pierce gripped the wheel, eyes fixed ahead, the truck seemingly moving at the pace of a snail during rush hour. He was wary, tensing at every police siren that whizzed past the truck. Meanwhile, the white kid, whom Pierce had learned was called Daniel, kept bragging about how much of a heavyweight he was, and how he'd had a three-way. The two girls seemed to look at each other awkwardly when he mentioned that, groaning and telling him to get the fuck over himself. Pierce mostly tried to tune it out, checking his watch periodically. The hispanic lady, Angela shifted in her seat and nudged him. "You ok, bruv? You seem stressy." Her friend, Rebecca (whom was sadly sat in the back of the truck with Daniel) peeped up.

"Yeah, you barely said a word the whole time." Angela smiled, resting her hand on Pierce's knee. He grinned, glancing at her.

"I'm ok, girl. I'm just looking forward to later." The girls let out a high-pitched 'ooooooo'.

"You got a hot date, huh, Pierce?" Rebecca chirped. Pierce's smile grew, chuckling a little.

"Pretty much." The girls repeated their 'oooooo', followed by Daniel giving his 'spectacular dating advice', which Rebecca and Angela proceeded to critique.

All the while, Pierce kept checking the clock, wanting desperately to bolt.

After the goods were delivered and everything sorted, Pierce called for a cab back to the Downtown Loft where he rushed inside, barging past the Saints and strippers that seemed to clutter the place. He grabbed a large black bag, and as he passed through the living room, he caught a glimpse of some bright orchids in a vase on the tabletop. He quickly snatched them up then ran down and practically dove into the waiting taxi.

He drummed his fingers on his knees, teeth grinding as he waited for the taxi to pull up alongside his destination. He flung a bundle of cash at the driver then lept out, sprinting up the steps and burst through the door of the Stilwater Hospital. He smiled at the receptionist, Cecilia, a short African lady with thick black hair, combed neatly around her freckled face. Her dark eyes zoned in on Pierce and smiled. "Oh Pierce, honey!" She leaned over her desk, embracing him in a hug. Pierce shifted awkwardly, feeling a little embarrassed. She kissed his cheek twice then pulled away, beaming at him. "It's been so long! How've you been?" Pierce nodded

"Good, good." He adjusted the tip of his baseball cap, Cecilia catching a glimpse of the bundle of flowers. She gasped

"Oh, are those for her?" Pierce nodded again, smiling sheepishly.

"Yeah, I figured I should make it up to her." Cecilia smiled warmly.

"She's a lucky lady." She handed him a visitors sticker. "You know where she is."

Pierce trumped upstairs passing the special care ward. He came to a halt outside of one of the rooms. He stepped inside. The room was dark, the blinds closed. The only noise coming from the life support machine as it whirred in the background. Pierce smiled and set down his heavy bag, then sat on the edge of the bed, resting the flowers on the nightstand. On the bed, hooked up to all manner of tubes, lay a middle-aged woman with graying hair and dark skin. She had a strong chin, and narrow eyes, her nose sharp and cheeks soft. Pierce let out a heavy sigh and gently took the woman's wrinkled hand in his. "Hey, mom." He whispered, tears threatening to spill. "Sorry I couldn't come to see you on your birthday. I asked sis if she wanted to come today, but she's with her boyfriend, and well... y'know how stubborn she is." He paused, a tear splashing on his palm. He smiled "I remember how when we were little, you used to take us to that park after school, and when it was time to go, she'd cling to the jungle gym, and she'd would refuse to leave." He paused, smiling to himself at the memory. "I remember me and her would hide in that giant bush in our yard every morning. You used to hate that, especially when we missed the bus everytime." He chuckled softly, then bit his lip, glancing up at her blank expression. "I know you were only looking out for us. Even when dad left, you were always there, always strong." He paused. If only he'd been there for her that night... That night, when the Ronin had first arrived in Stilwater.

It'd been a miracle that his sister had only walked away with a mild concussion and some whiplash. His mother, sadly hadn't been so lucky. Pierce had been out partying with his friends on the hockey team when he got the call from the police. It'd happened three years ago, yet even now that the Ronin were finished, Pierce still felt empty without his family. He smiled faintly then turned 'round, unzipping his bag and pulled out an acoustic guitar, already tuned to perfection. He began plucking at the strings, playing a simple, soft melody. He pursed his lips, allowing the lyrics to a song he'd memorized to flow forth. Normally he'd be self conscious of a nurse, or doctor listening in, but today his focus was all on his mother. So much had changed in the last few months, yet he'd always hoped in the back of his mind, that joining the Saints, killing the Ronin might make him feel a little bit better. Granted, the Saints had given him a purpose and the pay was great.

Before he'd joined the Saints, he'd been scraping by on friendly loans and part time jobs, so that a large portion of his salary could pay for his mother's medical bills. Even though money was no longer an issue, he was beginning to wonder if his mother would ever wake from her coma. At first, the estimate had been two months. Then twelve. Then twenty four. Now the doctor was saying that there was a slim chance that she'd ever wake up. His little serenade ended as he noticed the heart rate monitor. It was gradually beginning to beat faster. He gripped his mother's hand, as a group of doctors barged in, most of which were prepped for an operation it seemed. "What's wrong?" Pierce asked, head swivelling around the room from person to person, about as panicked as the doctors seemed.

The leading doctor, took his mother's clipboard, shrewdly making a quick note. Pierce's heart nearly skipped a beat as he attempted to paw his way through the crowd to get to his mother. "What's happening?" He yelled as the leading doctor, Mr Martin, restrained him, dragging a hysteric Pierce towards the door. Once out of the room, Pierce pressed himself up against the window, panting. He spun 'round to face Martin. "Is she ok?" He asked. Martin held up a hand to calm Pierce whilst clutching the clipboard to his chest.

"We believe so. According to our data, she's showed increased signs of brain activity in the past few days, so today might be the day, but we can't be certain." Pierce felt a small spark of hope bud in his chest. Although, he did wonder...

"Why's this the first I've heard about this?" Martin looked taken aback.

"Well, we tried to call, but we couldn't get through to you. We left you a message last week." Pierce cursed, suddenly feeling stupid. And selfish. He'd been at a frat party with his old high school buddies, introducing them to some of the crew.

"I'm sorry, I didn't get it." Pierce couldn't take his eyes off the crowd around his mother. He could see her hand peeking out between the busying doctors, and Pierce swore he saw it twitch.

Martin told him he'd contact him the instant he found any new developments. Clutching his guitar, Pierce stormed out. His emotions were all muddled up. He felt joy that his mother might finally wake up, fear that she might very well pass away, and disappointment in himself. Martin insisted that Pierce head home, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He felt obliged to stay in the hospital all night if he had to, until he found out the results. He wanted to be as close to his mother as he could.

He propped his guitar up beside him in the waiting room, glancing at his phone. He was tempted to turn it off, but resisted. If the Boss called him up, he wanted to be there. If Martin called him up, he also wanted to be there. He checked his watch. It was 1pm, and yet Pierce suddenly felt tired. He tucked his palms behind his head, stretched out his legs, leaned his head back, slouched in his seat and waited for the call.


End file.
